


Scales of Justice Weigh the Consequence

by inspiresimagine



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: (for trigger warning purposes - THEY ARE THE ENEMY), Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, BAMF Women, Emergency Medical Technicians, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Bonding, Female Friendship, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Jewish Character, Medical Professionals, Nazis, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Female Character, Post-Canon, Single Parents, it's not fluff yet but it'll get there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-10-21 07:08:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17638133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inspiresimagine/pseuds/inspiresimagine
Summary: Your daughter says, “Mommy, watch out!” and you glance up just in time to collide bodily with a man coming your way. Your shoulder slams backwards and you stumble, your hand ripped from hers. The sidewalk tilts. You lose your balance.And you see blue.Or, the one where the world is black and white until you find your soulmate. You’re a single mom in NYC accustomed to life as-is, but apparently, the universe has other plans. Namely? Frank Castle.





	1. Part I - Blue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm super excited about this, mostly because I have given myself the excuse to write a soulmate fic with Frank, but also because the plot is fun. Anon on tumblr, thank you for the prompt. ;)
> 
> Song for this chapter is "Almost (Sweet Music)" by Hozier.

“Stay close to Mommy,” you say, reaching out for your daughter’s hand as you navigate busy New York streets. “Okay, kiddo? Or else I’m gonna have to pick you up.” 

Morgan pouts up at you, and you tousle her hair, finally snagging her little fingers in yours. They’re not a toddler’s chubby hands anymore, which fills you with both overwhelming relief and gentle nostalgia. Morgan has just turned six. You wonder where that time went. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you chide her, smiling regardless. “This is one busy city, baby. If you wanna be a big girl, you stay close to me.” 

Morgan wriggles, but you hold tight. “I  _ am  _ a big girl, Mommy,” she whines, “you don’t gotta keep me so close like that-”

Laughter bubbles in your chest. “Oh yes, I do,” you tease her, kneeling on the sidewalk to tickle her belly. Morgan screeches with laughter, flapping her hands and trying to tickle you in return. 

You scoop her up and tuck her under your arm like a loaf of bread, grunting with the effort of it. “No, no,  _ noo!”  _ Morgan cries, but contradicts herself with giddy peals of laughter. “You can’t! You can’t, I am a big girl, see?” She giggles and giggles and kicks her little feet until you set her down, because damn, when did that kid get so heavy? 

“Alright.” You brush yourself off and concede the victory to your baby girl before plunging your hand into her mess of curls and messing them up all over again. Morgan bats at your hand, play fighting and laughing herself to tears. 

“Mommy, no!” she wails dramatically, draping herself over your lap and pressing a hand to her forehead. You hold in an amused snort.

“Where’d you learn to do that, baby?” you ask, pulling her upright and dusting off her shirt as you fix her hair. “And don’t lie down on the sidewalk, Morgan. It’s  _ filthy,  _ God.”

“They put on the old movies in school,” she explains proudly, ignoring your scoldings. “The grainy ones, with the fancy ladies.” 

“Oh yeah?” You take her hand again and keep walking, certain that you’ve missed the subway by now. Oh well. There’ll be more trains. “You wanna pick one up from the library, kiddo? We can watch it tonight.” 

“Don’t be silly,” Morgan says, as if it’s the clearest thing in the world. “You have work, Mommy.” 

It’s true. You’re a nurse practitioner, working 24 hour shifts at a time, and on call during the rest of the week. Tomorrow morning, you’ll send Morgan to school with a friend who lives in the building, and then you’re off. Morgan loves her sleepovers, but she knows that they’re not just social events. 

“I know, baby,” you say quietly, pulling yourself out of your thoughts. “So why don’t we have a girl’s night tonight, huh? Watch our movie, yeah? How does that sound?” 

“I jus’ wanna go home, Mommy,” Morgan says petulantly, dragging a hand over her face. When she speaks again, she sounds too old for her years. “It’s been a really long day.” 

You look down at her for a while, and Morgan responds to your silence, tilting her head upwards to stare at you. “Look where you’re going, Morgan,” you say on instinct. “We’ll go home. Okay? We can have our movie night after work.”

“Okay,” says Morgan, her eyes never leaving your face. You smile sadly, taking in her features, all so like your own. Her round face is protected by a hall of springy curls, and your heart pangs. It’s been six years and you don’t even know the color of your daughter’s hair. 

Her father - long gone, now - wasn’t your soulmate. You loved him anyway, in black and white, and figured that if you never found your soulmate he’d be a good consolation prize. Most people never met their soulmate, and you knew that. You had resolved long ago to weather the world in greyscale, to never see a sunset in full rendition, to view the New York City Skyline like an old photograph, to watch all your movies in black and white. 

Then he found his soulmate. You didn’t. You couldn’t even blame him for leaving. You only resent that he never looked back, not even for his one year old daughter. He didn’t look back once. 

Morgan says, “Mommy, watch out!” and you glance up just in time to collide bodily with a man coming your way. Your shoulder slams backwards and you stumble, your hand ripped from hers. The sidewalk tilts. You lose your balance. 

And you see blue. 

You blink.

You blink again and you’re still seeing it. You  _ see blue.  _ You can’t describe it well, but you have to try. It’s a soft colour, like someone knew it would be a warm welcome to a world in high definition. You’re flat on your back and you’re seeing blue, all blue, with wisps of white in between - you recognize white, surely - and those are clouds. You’re seeing clouds as they’re meant to be seen. You’re seeing  _ colour. _

Blue swims in your vision, this bright shade of crisp sky, and it hurts your eyes to keep them open for so long. But you have to continue looking - you  _ have  _ to. You are filled with an all-consuming need to keep drinking up colour and seeing, seeing, seeing. You could live in blue forever. You could swim in it and love it and wear it as a dress.

You’ve heard a lot of stories about the moment when the world blooms. Now you’re experiencing it, and the stories don’t compare. 

Then sound trickles back into your peripherals, far off and concerned. You identify Morgan’s voice, high and shrill, calling, “Mommy! Mommy, what happened? Why aren’t you standing up? Mommy, can you hear me? Stop, I wanna give her a hug, she fell down!” But there’s something else, too. A sound that’s deeper, raspier. A man’s voice. Fear slides itself into the pincushion of your heart. 

_ What fucking man is putting his hands on my daughter? _

You push yourself up on your elbows and a protective growl forces itself from your throat as you scan the sidewalk for Morgan. “Hey, baby, I’m okay,” you say, spotting her about a metre away. “I’m okay, don’t worry. Who’s this guy giving you -”

_ Trouble.  _ The word dies in your throat as he turns around. He’s kept one steady, calming hand on Morgan’s shoulder and has been gruffly pushing away passersby with an iron stare and a, “Nothin’ to see here.” 

And he’s in colour. Bright, violent, visceral colour. Your head pounds as you stare at him, threatening to send you sprawling again. You breathe in and you breathe colour and you stare, you stare, you stare. 

The man is taller than you, but not by much. He’s stocky, strong, and even through the grey of his hoodie you clock his muscular build. His eyes are a piercing brown and there’s a cut across one eyebrow; in fact, you can trace pink and white scars across his collarbone and wrists. He looks dangerous. Intimidating. But he’s protecting you, it seems, from hungry New York onlookers. 

You swallow hard. “Morgan, come here,” you say, forcing your voice to stay steady. “Okay? Come to Mommy.” 

Your daughter looks at this strange man in the eye like she’s judging his soul. Then she walks over to you and wraps her little arms around your legs. You kneel to hug her better, squeezing Morgan in your arms and breathing in her baby-scent. The smell of that no-tangle shampoo, the sweet lotion, the candle in her primary school, grounds you. It centers you. You almost feel like yourself again. 

That’s when the man speaks. “She, uh, she did good,” he says, offering some sort of olive branch. “Eh, kid?” 

Morgan nods from where her nose is buried in your shoulder. You ruffle her hair and stand up, heaving Morgan up with you as her legs wrap around your middle. “Did you do a good job for the - the nice man, Morgie?” you ask, and she keeps nodding. “Yeah, Morg? Moggo?” 

Your daughter cracks a smile and you swear the sun breaks through a cloud. Taking a breath, you offer a smile towards the man, and every colour on the street doubles its intensity. 

“Hi,” you say finally, offering your name. “I’d, um, I’d shake your hand, but this little goober decided she wants me to pick her up again, so-”

“It’s fine.” The man’s voice is rough, gravelly. He swallows, and there’s something unreadable in his eyes. Glancing down, he scuffs one foot and stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets.

Shifting, you speak again. “And you are…?” 

There’s a too-long pause that sets your nerves on end. Every street sense you’ve picked up in the city tells you to run, and run / _ now./  _ You’re at risk. Your daughter is at risk. Something deeper, though - something primal - tells you to stay exactly where you are. 

And he made you see colour. 

You don’t move.

“I’m Frank,” he says, and looks up again. This time you get more than a glimpse of those eyes, and your breath hitches. There’s grief writ large across his face, something deep and piercing, and already an apology bends his lips. “Listen, uh-”

“Wait,” you blurt before he can finish. The words have stalled in his throat. “I - I know you don’t owe me anything, I get it. I do. But -” Your voice catches and you nod towards the sky. “Can you…?” 

Even before Frank looks heavenward, you know that he can see it too. The corner of his eyes crinkle - not for long, but they do - to reveal deep smile lines, and for a split second you’re treated to the sight of a much younger, happier man. You see an unburdened man, the type of man who smiles when it rains and catches the droplets on his tongue. You imagine this man swathed in happy blue, letting water track rivulets down smiling cheeks as he picks up Morgan and swings her around.

The man in front of you nods once. “Yeah,” he replies, low and rough. 

Morgan squirms like a cat until you let her down. “What’s going on, Mommy?” she asks, tugging at your shirt. “And who’s Frank?”

The two of you share a glance, and it’s painfully natural. “Well, baby,” you hedge, mind racing, “I think he might be a new friend.” This is certainly a situation you’ve never had to explain before. “He’s, um….”

“Hey,” interrupts Frank gruffly, lowering himself to one knee so he can see eye-to-eye with Morgan. “What colour is my hand, kid?” 

Morgan shoots you a look like ‘ _ is this guy for real?’  _ but you nod at her to go along with it. She folds her little arms. “It’s grey.” 

“Right,” Frank agrees. “For you, it’s grey. But for me and your mother, see -” He points to you, and you smile. “For us, it’s tan, y’know? For us, we, uh, we see this differently. I bumped into your mother and… uh, now we see differently.”

“Colour,” says Morgan, glancing up at you to confirm. “Are you her soulmate?”

Frank barks a startled laugh and on instinct, reaches out to tousle Morgan’s hair. “I see you get things done, eh?” he says, and all your fear dissipates. Seeing him with her is breathtakingly natural. It’s like he was supposed to be here all along. “Up and coming businessman.”

Morgan shrugs her shoulders and keeps her arms folded. “Well,” she presses, chewing on her bottom lip, “are you?”

Frank looks to you. You nod just barely, and some kind of zing runs up your hands, then around your shoulders and into your very brain. “Yeah,” he says, sitting back on his haunches and letting his hands rest on his knees. “I guess some people would call it that, yeah.” 

“That’s what I thought,” says Morgan, chewing on her finger.

“Didja?” asks Frank, raising an impressed brow. “You’re quick, kid, that’s good. What’s your name?” 

She considers, but when you nod at her, she tells him. “It’s Morgan.” 

“Sweet name,” Frank says approvingly. He holds out a hand for a high five and a shy smile crosses Morgan’s face as she obliges. 

“Okay, kiddo, that’s enough,” you say, shooting Frank a sheepish look and pulling Morgan to your side. “Alright? We don’t want to bother this nice man here.”

“Yes we absolutely  _ do  _ want to bother your soulmate,” Morgan says in a rush, all one word. It’s now that you see the way she’s looking at him, with some combination of wariness and far flung hope. She misses having the father she barely remembers. “Can’t he come for dinner, Mommy? Please?”

You laugh. “I think that’s up to Frank, baby,” you reply, nudging her forwards. “Why don’t you ask, huh?” 

But Frank’s expression has turned pained and his hands have returned to his pockets before Morgan can so much as open her mouth. He shakes his head, jaw tight. “Can’t,” he says, and his voice has dropped again. “Sorry.”

The air has changed and you step forward, reaching out a hand to touch his arm and then deciding against it “Wait, what - is it something I said?” you ask, stricken with embarrassment. “Because I didn’t mean to presume, Frank; I -”

“No, it’s -” He huffs out a breath and glances beside you, then the other direction, like he’s expecting an attack. Frank’s movements are jerky but precise, and there’s a snappish energy coiled within him. It reminds you of a viper waiting to strike. “I can’t, okay?”

“Okay,” you say, unreasonably stung at the rejection. You can see the flush of his cheeks in Technicolour but it doesn’t matter. Your soulmate doesn’t want you. “Moggo, baby, let’s go home.”

Grabbing your daughter’s hand, you start down the street. Morgan pats her hair and looks up at you. “I thought he liked you.”

“I thought so too,” you sigh, inhaling deeply. This isn’t the time to cry about some guy you’ve just met, even if his touch flicked on every light in the city that never that sleeps. Even if he’s your soulmate. You’re a proud woman, and you know better. 

Then something touches your arm, and you turn to see Frank. “Hey, I -”

“It’s fine,” you interrupt before he can make you feel worse. “I get it. You’re a busy guy. And like I said, you don’t owe me anything, so -”

“No. Just -” Frank rocks back on the balls of his feet and clears his throat. “Hear me out.” 

You fold your arms. Beneath you, Morgan mimics the gesture. Frank touches your elbow with a surprising intimacy, a gentleness, and swallows. “Listen,” he says, brow furrowing as those sharp eyes meet yours, “this is going to sound crazy. But you gotta hear me out, yeah?”

You study him before agreeing, “Yeah,” with a quiet resilience. “Fine.”

Frank exhales. “I never believed in soulmates,” he begins, and he says the word like it’s poison, a bitter twist to his lips. “Not once, you know? I figured I’d meet someone and, you know, I’d love them, and that would be that, but -” He sniffs, once, swipes a finger beneath his nose. “But now you’re here.”

“Sure am,” you say, trying your best to break the ice. Both of you laugh. It’s tense and short, but worth it. 

“Now you’re here, you know, and - and I don’t love you yet,” Frank continues, and there’s some comfort in hearing that. “But you, and - and - and - this kid, here, if -” He switches his train of thought midsentence. “It’s selfish of me to do this. To want - this. But if you want - if you want something, too, uh, look me up.”

“Look you up?” you repeat. “What, like a celebrity? Is that why you’ve been so standoffish all this time?” 

“I know how it sounds.” Frank has the decency to look sheepish. “But, uh, you’re just gonna have to trust me, yeah? You ‘n the kid both. You’re just gonna have to trust me. And if - if you decide that you want - if you -” He runs his tongue over his top lip, exhales, and starts again. “If you decide you want this, come back here. Sunday. Five PM. And I - I swear to God, I’ll be there.”

“That sounds like the setup to a kidnapping,” you try to joke, but Frank’s face darkens. 

“Promise me, yeah?”

You reach down for Morgan’s hand and she takes it, squeezing hard. “Okay,” you agree, despite yourself. “What’s your name, then? What should I look up?” 

When he looks at you again, you see something new in Frank’s eyes. Not excitement or anticipation or nervousness or any type of first date jitter you’d expect. 

It’s fear. 

“Castle,” he rasps, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Frank Castle.”

And then he’s gone, so swiftly that, aside from the memory you now hold, it’s like he was never even there. 

Morgan tugs at your sleeve. “Mommy, will you carry me?” she asks, staring after Frank. 

“Sure will, kiddo,” you murmur, heaving her up and listening to her comforting giggle. “Jeez, when did  _ you  _ get so heavy? What am I  _ feeding  _ you? Huh?” You tickle Morgan’s side and she flings back her head, sending those curls bouncing. 

Morgan is in colour now, too, and for the first time in your life you can see the shade of your daughter’s curls. Her hair is springy and shining in the evening light, and it’s exactly the same colour as yours. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!! comments and kudos are, of course, much appreciated. if you want to hit me up, check out my Tumblr @inspiresimagine for writing exploits.


	2. Part II - Yellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your first date, or something of that kind. With Frank, nothing is clear cut, but you're enjoying yourself regardless. 
> 
> Ft. Morgan, nerves, and proper communication skills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Scales of Justice Saturday! With no further ado, let's get to it. :)
> 
> song for this chapter is "Sunflower" from Spiderman: Into the Spider-Verse.

You don’t search for Frank until long after you put Morgan to bed. You wait until the dewey city air coats your sheets and your skin, creasing around your body until it’s uncomfortable to breathe. The faint sound of your ticking analog clock is agony, so you stand, slipping your feet off the bed and padding over to your laptop.

The sound of your own heartbeat pounds erratically in your ears, and when your computer glows, it’s blue again. _Blue._ That’s Frank’s colour now, in your mind, but it feels corrupted in the dark. Your fingers tap a jerky rhythm on the keyboard, and you’re terrified of what you might find. The name _Frank Castle_ sounds familiar, like you’ve heard it on the news. And whatever he was afraid of was no joke.

You open Google, type in those fateful words, and click search.

Then you slam your laptop shut and whirl around, breath coming in rapid puffs, hoping and praying that you haven’t woken up Morgan. She’s still asleep, thank God. Already the headlines are etched into your memory: _Vigilante Frank Castle Escapes Prison After Controversial Trial,_ one reads.  _“The Punisher” Suspected of Fifty Murders, Still At Large,_ says another. Multiple results are mug shots. One is just an old warning: _RED ALERT: Frank Castle Armed and Dangerous._

It’s him. It’s definitely him. You would recognise that face anywhere. Despite knowing that you should stop, that you should forget about him entirely and get to sleep, you pry open your laptop again and scroll down. The proper place to start, it seems, is the beginning, so you click on the first article and read. It’s from a little more than seven years ago.

_The recent murders of Maria Castle, 34 Lisa Castle, 11, and Frank Castle, Jr., 8, have inspired controversy, but not over their violent nature. In fact, the discourse stems from the actions of the shooting’s only survivor. Francis G. Castle, husband to Maria and father of Lisa and Frank Jr, is now known as the vigilante nicknamed “the Punisher.” After their deaths, Castle disappeared, resurfacing only to be convicted of 37 murders. He is suspected of several more._

The article keeps going, but you stop there for now.

You shut your eyes and exhale.

Damn.

Thirty-seven fucking murders. Thirty seven lives ended. And those are the only ones that have been _proven._ You should be afraid; you should feel _terrified._ But something still doesn’t add up, and maybe it’s because of the way he talked to Morgan. Maybe it’s the concern in his voice when he told you he was being selfish for wanting to see you again. Maybe it’s the way he lit up the sky.

Maybe it’s the fact that you read about the death of his eight year old son, his eleven year old daughter, and you can’t hate him for punishing those responsible for their deaths.

Now you’re trying to rationalize it, like there’s a way to excuse him for the killing. Footage of Frank’s trial is public, so you skim through it, watching the battle between DA Reyes and lawyer Foggy Nelson. Most of it is formality and legal jargon, but you learn quite a bit, namely that Frank was shot in the head on the same day his family was killed. That he sustained damage to the frontal lobe of his brain. That he relives his trauma every single day.

And for a single moment, you stop blaming him.

You fast forward to the clip where Frank takes the stand; you watch Matthew Murdock, one of his lawyers, give a rousing speech about vigilante justice and mental health. It’s not Murdock that you pay attention to; no, your eye is trained on Frank, who grows progressively more tense in the background. When he starts yelling, hoarse and furious, the hunted expression you saw mere hours ago frozen on his face, you have to shut the computer.

It slams, and you can hear your heartbeat, and your hands are shaking. You’re breathing like you’ve just run a marathon.

_I’d do it again,_ he had said. _I’d kill them all over again._ You believe him, and your hands are shaking.

When you think of Morgan - your daughter, your world, your reason for breathing, sometimes, _Morgan,_ the absolute light of your entire fucking life - that’s when you understand him. Even imagining her death makes your blood run cold. If someone took your child away from you like that, what the hell would you do? You’d been ready to lay a hand on Frank simply for touching her shoulder. Your hands keep shaking.

You shut your eyes and are struck with the knowledge that you would do anything for that kid, for _your_ kid. When the little voice in your head asks if that includes murder, you swallow hard and answer it.

_Yes._

Finally, your fingers still. You’ve learned about more than just Frank Castle tonight.

 

* * *

 

That Sunday, you’re dressing yourself up like you’re going on a date. It’ll be your first one in colour. You pick your clothes with care, running your hands over the fabric of your favorite dress and revelling in the shades of yellow you can spot there. Morgan trots into the bathroom as you put on a matching pair of golden earrings, frowning thoughtfully.

“Are you going to meet Frank, Mommy?” she asks, and a nervous laugh bursts from your chest.

“I am, baby,” you say, and admitting it makes the whole situation so much more real. “That’s why you’re going to stay with Max and his mommy until dinner, okay? I already made it, so when I get home, we’re gonna heat it up and have our girls’ night. I got you the movie that your teacher said you liked.”

“Is Frank coming?” Morgan asks, staring up at you with big, pleading eyes. The headlines flash in your mind again, warring with the memory of Frank’s gentle explanation of soulmates. You exhale heavily and tweak her nose.

“I don’t know, Mog,” you admit, trying for a smile. “We’ll see.”

“Well, I hope so!” she says, and bounds into your flat’s tiny kitchen. “Maybe he’s a better cook than you, and _he_ can make us dinner.”

You snatch up your sandals from next to you on the floor and follow Morgan out of the bathroom. “I’m not that bad a cook!” you cry, scooping her up and tickling her sides. Morgan squeals. “Are you gonna take that back, Moggo? Yeah? You gonna take that back?”

Morgan kicks out of your arms and folds her arms the minute she’s regained her balance. “No _way,”_ she huffs. You stick out your tongue, but Morgan suddenly grows serious. “You gotta ask Frank, okay? If he can cook. It’s really important.”

“If you insist, baby,” you agree, ruffling her hair and shaking your head. “C’mon, I don’t wanna be late.”

You pick up your purse from a countertop and unzip it, taking inventory. Your Swiss Army knife already has its corkscrew extended, and your old bottle of pepper spray rests in one pocket. After work a few days prior, you had bought a new can of mace, which lies flat across the bottom of the bag. Instinct tells you that you don’t need any of this, but experience in the city tells you that over-preparation doesn’t exist. In New York, you can never be too paranoid.

Morgan drags you out of the flat, and you can’t tell whether she’s excited to see her own friend, Max, or to possibly have the chance to see Frank again. “Bye, Mommy!” she calls as Max begins to explain his new game about sentient trucks. You smile at Max’s mother in apology, but she waves you away.

“Go,” she says sweetly. “You look great. They’re going to be dazzled.”

You look down at your outfit, suddenly flushed, and moisten your lips. “You like it?”

“It’s a lovely shade of yellow,” your neighbor says, eyes crinkling at the edges. You can’t help but stare, your lips parting slightly.

“You - you can see it?” you ask, near-breathless. “It’s my first time, um, going out with someone in colour, see, and I-”

“Well,” she says, with a smile that splits her face into radiating, glowing happiness, “if they made you see colour, that’s the one. You have to keep them around. Believe me, he’ll feel the same. Or she? I don’t want to presume-”

“He,” you confirm, biting your lip and inhaling deeply. “And thank you. I hope it’ll go well.”

“It will,” says your neighbor, as Morgan’s laughter floats up from deeper in the flat. That comfort brings a smile to your lips. Your neighbor shoos you out with an encouraging, “Go on, don’t be nervous! This is your _soulmate,_ darling.”

“Right,” you say, smoothing your dress and hefting your purse. “Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

There’s a song on your lips as you make your way to the agreed meeting spot, arriving five minutes early. It takes a minute before you realize that the song is “Sunflower,” from that new Spider-Man movie you saw with Morgan a few weeks ago. It matches the yellow of your dress - the very yellow that you can see now. The yellow that Frank brought you.

You sit down on a bench and plop your purse into your lap, scanning the area for Frank. Is this a date? You’re not sure. A little summer breeze bounces around the high-rises and you shiver, partially in anticipation. Then you spot him by the hunch of his shoulders, hoodie drawn over a baseball cap, hands firmly in the pocket.

When you stand, he sees you too, and the world pulses with colour. You smile, tuck a lock of hair behind your ear, and wave. Frank smiles back, like he’s not used to it anymore.

“Hey,” you say softly, and your voice carries.

“You, uh…” Frank’s gaze catches on your earrings, your dress. He clears his throat. “You look nice.” Thumbing at the fabric of his hoodie, he swipes his tongue over his top lip and gives a miniscule shake of his head. “I - ” Frank tips back his head and nearly laughs. “I feel underdressed.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you reply on instinct, confidence surging through your body. “I just really jumped on the excuse to wear something nice. I mean, it’s not scrubs, so…” Your self-assurance disappears and you clear your throat.

“You look nice,” he repeats, and you flush all the way down your neck.

“Thanks.”

You cross to approach him and then the two of you fall in step, heading into the park. For a while you don’t speak. You don’t know what to start with, after everything you’ve read. The weight of the mace in your purse is both comforting and awkward. Frank keeps looking at you, eyes flicking over like he’s being pulled into orbit, then jerking away. The silence isn’t awkward, though, despite the barrier. It almost feels like you’ve been doing this for years: walking next to each other, side by side.

“It’s all true,” Frank says suddenly, stopping in his tracks. You nearly skid to a halt, turning to face him.

“What?” you ask, even though you know what he’s talking about. You just need to hear him say it. Or maybe you’re still holding out some ridiculous suspended disbelief that he’s an innocent man wronged by circumstance and the perceptions of the media.

“I did it,” he says, voice scraping the bottom of a barrel. Frank’s eyes dart to the left, then the right. There’s no shame in his expression even as he avoids your gaze. “I did it, I killed them. All of them. More.”

Your heart leaps into your throat. Every part of you feels laid bare, completely undressed, like his confession has wrenched out your deepest sins and strewn them across the grass. The grass is green now, you notice with a start. You haven’t really looked at grass properly since the world flourished.

“That woman,” you say, swallowing hard and surprising yourself at your own resolve. But you have to _know._ Weirdly enough, this is the dealbreaker. “That woman in one of the articles, Karen Page. Did you really kidnap her? Hold her hostage? Did you really bomb that hotel?”

Frank’s lips part, and he glances down. He’s looking at your hands, your forearms, as his own fingers rasp over each other as he twists one fist under his palm. His tongue flicks over his top lip and for the first time, he meets your eyes. “No.”

And you believe him.

“Okay,” you whisper, and you smile, and something slots into place. “Um, can you cook?”

Frank snorts. “What?”

“Cooking,” you repeat, a teasing glint in your eye. “Are you any good?”

Your reward is a long, side-eyed glance from Frank. Then he shakes his head and huffs, the hint of a grin briefly lighting up his features. “I’m alright,” he says. “I, uh, I used to - I always cooked for Maria ‘n the kids, you know? They -” He clears his throat and you look at him with a soft, wordless encouragement. Frank’s brow furrows and he ploughs on. “Whenever I was home, uh, I would - it was a team effort, y’know? We were a team, we… we cooked together.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, knowing on instinct that he isn’t finished. “Frank, I… I’m not trying to replace your wife, okay? If we turn out to be something, that’s fine, and if not…” You square your shoulders and look him straight in the eye. “Well, if not, then you don’t owe me anything and I don’t owe you anything. We don’t know anything about each other. I mean, hell, we might not even _l_ _ike_ each other, but -”

You take a deep breath and look him in the eyes, chewing on your lip as you measure your words. “But you, Frank Castle, you make me see colour, and _that_ has to mean something.”

“Yeah.” Frank’s jaw works for a moment and he studies you like he’s seeing you for the first time. “Yeah, you… Y’know, the fact that you came back even after you - after you searched everything up. I- I never thanked you for that. I wouldn’t’ve blamed you if you ran, you know? I mean, you don’t deserve that. To-”

“Stop,” you say, shaking your head. “It’s not about ‘deserve.’ We don’t pick, alright? Whether or not you believe we’re soulmates or not, it’s just a fact that we don’t pick who this happens with. But it happens, and we have to deal with the consequences. You’re my consequence. Okay? And I’m yours.”

“You always this sweet?” Frank asks gruffly, and half a smile pulls at the side of his mouth. You stare at him for a moment and then laugh, for real, trying to hide the sheepishness of it.

“I’m not really one to sugarcoat things, no,” you admit, and more laughter bubbles out of you both. It’s both awkward and not; you feel like a teenager. “God, I mean, I’m all bedside manner at work, so it’s nice to not have to be accomodating. My patients would flip if they ever met me in real life.”

“You a doctor?” Frank asks as you turn onto a new path, trekking through the park.

“Nurse,” you correct him. “Nurse practitioner. Emergency medicine, mostly, um. Surgery, sometimes. I help. That sort of thing.”

“Sounds tough.” You don’t miss the impressed note in Frank’s gravelly voice, and when you glance over towards him, he’s still looking at you. His head is half-cocked and his dark eyes are unreadable, but he nods, so that has to count.

“Yeah.” You exhale a steady stream of air and turn your eyes back to the lane ahead. “Lot of death, in a city like this.” Frank hums his agreement but it sounds more like a growl, and heat fills your cheeks. “Tell me about yourself,” you say abruptly, and Frank starts.

“Not much to know, ma’am.” His tone is dry and you shoot him a half smile.

“Hey, I mean,” you say, clearing your throat and looking up at him, appraisal settling on your face, “I’ll go first. Break the ice. Yeah?”

“Go for it,” Frank says.

For a moment, you’re quiet, considering. “You already know a bit,” you start. “I’m a nurse practitioner. I’m a single mom. I know krav maga because this city is a hellhole. I like to put on Hozier in the ER when I get the chance.” Frank rewards you with one burst of laughter, and you duck your head.

“I, um… I’ve watched way too much Paw Patrol to stay sane,” you continue, getting into it now. “I make terrible decisions when it comes to sleeping because 24 hour shifts will really fuck up your circadian rhythm. I haven’t seen an R rated movie in, like, five years, and there are nights I can’t remember the Shabbat prayers but you best _believe_ I still know my Torah portion by heart -”

“Wait,” says Frank, and you clam up. There’s a chuckle in his voice, though, a soft bend of his lips. In the middle of all those cuts and bruises on his face, the gentle inquiry of his smile makes your heart skip a beat. “You’re Jewish?”

“Sure am,” you confirm. “Still do the candles every Friday.”

“Me too,” says Frank, and you do a double take. “Not, uh - not the candles, you know, I don’t have time, but -” His tongue flicks out over his top lip and his eyes dart to you. “Yeah.”

“No way,” you say, grinning. You can’t help but ask: “What was your Torah portion? Mine was Miketz, um, the one about -”

“Pharoah interpreting Joseph’s dream,” Frank interrupts, and your face must reflect your pure giddiness, because he laughs. “Yeah. I did Parshat Vayera, uh. Lot’s wife gets turned into a pillar of salt.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Damn, I don’t know why I picked it, I mean. I was thirteen, real dick back then. Thought it was funny.”

“Guess I’ve found a nice Jewish boy after all,” you tease, and Frank chuckles, low and comfortable.

“Sure.”

He bumps your shoulder and the two of you fall into a rhythm, exchanging stories here and there as five PM turns into six PM, then half past. The sun ticks sleepily downwards, and it takes a while for you to notice.

The sky burns yellow and red and pink, and when you stop to look, it makes you gasp. You’ve never seen a sunset before, not like this. Judging by the way Frank stops beside you, he’s similarly affected. That great yellow ball curves a frowning half circle interrupted by the city skyline, seeping warm light across the tops of buildings. It matches your dress. Soft gold winks off your earrings and sparkles in the evening, and by God you look radiant.

Frank notices.

“It’s pretty,” you say neutrally, motioning towards the sunset, as if you both haven’t just been struck breathless.

He stares at it for a moment longer, then nods a few times. “Yeah.” His fingers brush yours and you can’t help but reach out and take his hand.

“Hey, listen,” you say, rushing forward before you can stop yourself. “I know this might be presumptuous of me, but -” You’re blushing deeply and Frank looks dead at you, head tilted, eyes both piercing and welcoming. Your fingers skim over the top of his like a habit. The sun comes to rest behind your ears and cloaks you in yellow, yellow, yellow, and it is your halo, and you are holy, you are yellow and holy and you have to say this.

“Are you doing anything tonight?” you ask as the sunset saints you. “I, um - I’m just going to warm up dinner, and I was wondering if you could come.”

Frank drops your hand, and your heart falls past your stomach and into your knees. A million things flash on his face and you know with awful certainty that you’ve lost him, that you’ve scared him away. When he speaks his voice is raspy and clipped, saying, “You know that I can’t.”

“Just tonight,” you press, blinking twice and blinking hard.

Turning back towards the sunset, Frank lets out a bitter laugh. “You don’t want this,” he warns, gravelly and purposefully intimidating. “Whatever you read about me, that should’ve been enough. That shoulda been enough but it wasn’t, and I get it, you know? I get it. But you cannot want this. You cannot want this, you hear me? You _do not_ want this.”

Mouth set in a firm line, you fold your arms over your chest. “You have no idea what I want,” you say flatly, close to laughing at the absurdity of the situation. You’re repeatedly asking a known serial killer over for dinner because your daughter wants you to. And _you_  want to. Jeez. “Alright? This is just one simple request, Frank, I mean, I want to spend time with you. At least that. This was nice, okay? I liked tonight. I had fun, I… I thought you did too.”

For a long while he won’t look at you, his body tense and nearly trembling. Then Frank shakes his head, sharp and sudden, turning back to face you with that gut-wrenching look haunting his face. “I-I-I can’t be so goddamn selfish,” he starts with a vengeance, lips curling back into a near snarl. “Because listen, okay? This -” He gestures between the two of you. “This will get you killed, point blank, no minced words. It doesn’t fucking matter what I want, you know, I mean, I can want anything and that don’t mean it’s gonna fuckin’ happen, yeah?”

His voice is low, hoarse, eyes scanning your face like a typewriter as he speaks. “I protect people by not being there. By not getting involved. And goddamn, do I need to - I just-”

“Frank-” you start, reaching out for his arm, but he wrenches away.

“You cannot be involved with any of my bullshit, you hear me?” he growls, and in him you see something that you’ve never seen in anyone else: fear that runs hot. Most people explode in anger and retreat in fear, but not Frank Castle. Everything about him is explosive. “You - I will not let that happen. I _will_ not let that happen. You don’t deserve that.”

He looks at you like a prey animal, and it cuts you to the bone. Frank is angry. Hunted. And his words aren’t paranoid if they’re true. “Your girl, your kid -” He chokes on daughterhood. _“She_ doesn’t deserve that. I’m done hurting people. I’m done dragging people into my shit. I’m done.”

“Wait,” you say, after he’s walked a few steps down the road. It’s so soft that Frank has to be listening for it, but he turns halfway, hands already tucked into his hoodie. “I was asking for her, okay? Morgan wanted to know if you were coming for dinner. I know it’s not safe. I don’t know the specifics, but I get it. It’s just… she’s been asking. And I don’t know if I can make her that happy again, I… just this once, Frank. We never have to see each other again.”

Your section of the park is empty. It’s just the two of you, separated by a few metres and an ocean of death and paranoia and weighted history. Frank looks at you with too much yearning.

“Please,” you call. The birds hold their breath.

Then Frank nods, and you smile, you smile, you smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed that (and are looking for more), feel free to hit me up on my Tumblr, @inspiresimagine. My ask box and PMs are very much open! Comments and kudos, of course, are dearly appreciated. <3


	3. Part III - Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One night shift at the hospital spirals rapidly in disaster. You didn't see this coming - and beware that you might not be around to see it end. The stakes rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Installment three of this fic means it's time to ramp up the action! 
> 
> Song of the week is "Crossfire" by Stephen.

The next three months are weird. Not bad, just… weird. It’s not even necessarily a bad sort of weird. There’s no real way to describe it, though, because  _ Frank Castle  _ has become a regular fixture in your life, and you like it. 

You’re not technically “with” him. In fact, you were adamant about not putting a label on anything. It’s not that you don’t like him - and it’s certainly not that you’re going for someone else - but there’s still a  _ lot  _ between you. Hell, you’re a nurse practitioner nobody and he’s a recognisable serial killer. There’s more to the story, of course, but it’ll take a while before you’re on proper footing to define your relationship.

He’s living a quiet life in the city at present, sure, and as far as you know he hasn’t killed anyone lately. God. What a weird thing for you to consider normal. But no matter how you try to spin it, Frank is a dangerous man with dangerous enemies. Neither of you want that around Morgan. 

Frank doesn’t talk much about the killing, the hurting. You draw inferences from the number of cuts and scrapes on his body, and the more you get to know him, the more tempted you become to bandage him up in your kitchen and trace your fingers along the soft, unbroken skin afterwards. 

When Frank does speak about the murders, there’s no regret in his voice. You can tell he doesn’t want to. You can also tell he feels like he owes it to you, in the interest of full disclosure. As soon as the topic turns to his vigilante days, he shuts off, then continually checks your face for horror and disgust. They’re little jerky glances, but impossible to miss. 

What you want to do is take him into your arms and sit in his lap and press your forehead to his and promise, promise, promise that he is not a monster, but you never do. It’s ridiculous. The two of you trade touches so rarely that holding his hand feels like a big deal; you are practically brimming with unconsummated Victorian want. One day you’re just going to break and kiss him, and it’ll all be downhill from there. 

As is, you see Frank once a week or so in a variety of restaurants and hotels and holes-in-the-wall. Burner phones and SIM cards pile up in your rubbish bin. Frank usually slips them to you over dinner, but two weeks ago, a phone was attached to a bouquet of flowers. You hadn’t received flowers in a long time. The look on your face was apparently enough for Frank, because this has been his method of delivery every since. 

Your clandestine affair takes place throughout the city, with Frank usually arranging the locations. He refuses to be seen at your apartment too often, for your sake and your daughter’s. His vehement protection of your home and the way he prioritizes your safety warms you with an intensity you’ve never known. 

Morgan adores him, too, and Frank is good with her. Well, ‘good’ isn’t strong enough a word - they’ve taken to each other like father and daughter. Morgan acts like she’s known him all her life. Sometimes she will laugh with him - a belly laugh, burbling and loud, and Frank’s returning smile could ignite the sun. 

The benefit to this is that you have no worries about Morgan’s reaction if you and Frank ever become an item. The downside is that she’s just as eager to see Frank as you are, which means you…. don’t get any time alone. Everything stays pent up, and you continue feeling like Lizzie Bennet. 

There was… well, there was the one time when you stayed in a hotel across the river in Jersey, and the air over dinner was electric. It encapsulates your odd combination of frustration and satisfaction to a T. You and Morgan and Frank had all grown comfortable with one another by this point, so conversation flowed freely. It was so fucking comfortable you could hardly dream it better. He kept looking at you with half a smile warming his iron features, as if he couldn’t believe you were there. 

Afterwards, you all went up to the hotel room, Morgan holding one of your hands and one of Frank’s as she trotted happily between you. When you got to the lift, Frank heaved her over one shoulder and carried the giggling girl down the hall, setting Morgan on her feet only to present her with the coveted room key. 

That night a children’s programme buzzed from the television and ensnared your daughter’s attention as you lay in the crook of Frank’s arm. His fingers traced circles on your shoulder as you spoke in murmurs, smiled in secret, and laughed for only him to hear. 

You’d fallen asleep like that, realizing only the next morning that he’d gotten Morgan ready for bed and put her to sleep without any fuss. He never asked for thanks or apology, but you gave both anyway. Even then you’d been thinking of his warmth, his solidity, and the comfort you felt in his arms for the first time. 

You think about that night a lot. 

You’re thinking about it now, actually, during a shift in the emergency room around midnight on a Wednesday. Frank is coming over for Shabbat on Friday, so you and Morgan are going to pick up fun coloured candles after you get off of work. 

It’s been a quiet night. The middle of the week means that less people are out drinking, and that in turn means you have less patients from both alcohol poisoning and car crashes. You’re off at nine AM, and your eyes keep flickering over to your watch like a child in a boring class. 

You come out of one room and smile at your favourite co-worker, Erin Bard. The patient you’ve just left is a frantic twenty-five year old grad student exhibiting signs of appendicitis, and you’ve just given them a dyed drink to prep for internal imaging. Though you’re calm about everything - appendicitis is far from the worst you’ve seen - you wince internally with sympathy. Grad school is the worst. 

“Hey,” you say warmly, wiping your hands on your green scrubs. The day after you met Frank, you’d been so excited to see the sterile teal colour that you’d nearly cried. Erin is the only person at work who knows that you’ve found your soulmate, though she doesn’t know who he is. “Anything I need to catch up on?” 

Erin shakes her head. She’s a tall, willowy Black woman with a head full of bouncy 3C curls. Right now, they bounce with her movement, and you sigh. “You got somewhere to be?” Erin teases, bumping your shoulder. “It’s midnight, babe. We’ve got nine hours left.” 

You run a hand down your face and keep from groaning.  _ Bedside manner, dammit,  _ you remind yourself. “I know.” The two of you come up to a counter and you lean heavily on your elbows, checking your watch even though you’ve just been told the time. “Not to be a terrible health professional, but  _ shit.  _ It’s like everyone took the night off from emergencies.” 

“A woman had a minor heart attack,” Erin offers as she rummages around in a cabinet to find a new box of gloves. “Right down the hall.” When she looks up, there’s a grin in her voice. “I don’t think  _ she’d  _ be too happy to hear that you think tonight’s boring.” 

“Oh, stop.” You can’t help but smile, too, as you pull your hair out of its bun at the nape of your neck. “Do you have an extra scrunchie?” 

“If this is just another ploy to take my nice velvet ones and not give them back,” Erin warns, sliding the aforementioned hair tie off her wrist and handing it over, “you’re gonna end up in here next, you hear me?” 

You get to work putting your hair back up, brushing flyaways out of your face. “How’re your kids, Erin?” you ask instead, winking as you pat your head to check for bumps in the ponytail. 

“This isn’t going to work on me -” Erin begins, but within seconds another nurse runs up to you, breathless. It’s Becca: young, pretty, and just out of nursing school. 

“You’re needed down the hall,” she gasps, wild-eyed and frantic. Her scrubs are covered in blood, and your heart seizes. “Erin, the heart attack patient needs you in 115, but -” She turns to you, chest heaving. Becca’s hair is frazzled and her gloves are stained red. She looks terrified and worn and this is wrong, wrong, wrong. Every part of you freezes. “There’s a man and his sister in 130, and he -”

Your hands go numb as she stammers something wordless, all sound short-circuiting for a moment. “He what?” you breathe, and Becca shakes her head. Fear and fury slam against your rib cage. Your fists clench as you roar, “He  _ what,  _ Becca?” 

The three of you take off down the hall as Becca blinks back tears, her words gulping in the back of her throat. “Listen, I - I’m sorry, but - he might be dying.” 

You swear that just for a second, the world goes black and white again. Erin shoots you a concerned look but you tear past her, leaving both her and Becca behind at 115 with the stupid fucking heart attack patient, and you regret everything you said about the night being boring, because if this is who you think it is - 

Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Oh, fucking hell, your vision goes red with panic as you enter room 130. You can barely see the patient for the team of doctors surrounding him, but oh, God, you know. You’ve never been more certain of anything in your life. Maybe it’s the way that colour begins to grow brighter the second you step into the room. Maybe it’s the rasping half-cough, half-groan that drives a fist through your chest and punctures your heart with your own ribs. Maybe it’s just instinct, fear and dread and instinct, but you know. 

The man on the bed is Frank. 

You don’t know how long you’ve been standing there - it can’t have been more than a few seconds but it feels like forever - when a hand touches your arm. A woman’s voice is repeating your name, over and over. Soft, professional, and steely, it eventually pulls you out of your daze. 

You look over and see her: slight build, curly hair, button nose, pointed chin, firm mouth. She’s beautiful. The woman is dressed in pressed slacks, wearing a blazer over a white blouse currently soaked red with blood.  _ Frank’s  _ blood. You take a deep breath and square your shoulders. 

“How do you know my name?” is the first thing out of your mouth, and the mystery woman smiles. 

“Oh, I can see why he likes you,” she says, scanning your face. Then she steers you by the elbow and pulls you towards the wall, checking the hallway for any passersby. Once satisfied, the woman leans in and says in a low voice, “My name is Dinah Madani. I’m currently checked into this place as Yvonne Castiglione, sister to Pete Castiglione. I don’t have to tell you who Pete is.” 

Even as you want to scream, you keep your mouth shut and nod instead. Dinah seems to appreciate it. “Why did you bring him here?” you ask, nodding to the room. “And how did you know where to find me?” 

“‘Pete’ called me about an hour ago,” Dinah says without breaking eye contact or switching away from that intense tone. You once again know with absolute certainty that the tale she’s spinning is a fabrication. “He was on his way home when he was jumped. Owed people some money. Too much. He couldn’t pay, and so they decided to make him. You can get the gritty details after we get out of here.” 

You nod, and Dinah moves away from you. Before she can go too far you catch her arm, pushing her back to the wall. “Tell me who you really are,” you whisper, an ice cold rasp. It sounds scary to your own ears. “Tell me how the hell you know him, what business you have, and why the  _ fuck  _ I should believe anything you say.” 

One burst of laughter pops from Dinah’s lips, and she meets your eyes, impressed. “I told you. Dinah Madani.” When you don’t relent, she sighs. “Homeland Security. Special Agent in Charge of New York, you can look me up. I’ve worked with Frank before, and-” She bites her lip, calculating. “And I don’t like how he does things, but I know he has a code. That he’s not - that he’s not whatever monster people make him out to be. I believe he’s a good man. A good man pushed to the limits of human suffering.” 

Dinah shakes her head. “Quite frankly,” she says, so close to you that you could count her eyelashes, “There’s no way you can say for sure that you can trust me. But if you want him to live, you’re just going to.” 

You let her go and you stare at each other for a moment, breathing long and slow. “Okay,” you say finally. “Okay.” 

Dinah laughs again, strained and stressed but real. “Trust me, I  _ really  _ see why he likes you,” she says with a tiny smile, disappearing into Frank’s hospital room. 

You take a deep breath and follow her in. 

Within seconds you’re put to work; a barrage of discarded scalpels come your way as you snap on a pair of gloves and do your fucking job. You help switch out surgeon’s tools, retrieve the medical staples, and pry out bullets. There are two in Frank’s right arm and one embedded deep in his left calf. They come out in spurts of red, and they whine red, red, red, all over your gloves as you set them down.

The dull metal clatters on a tray as you work and work and work. You run a roll of stitching thread all the way down to its last piece and are sent tearing down the hall, covered in blood, red blood, the word EMERGENCY practically written across your chest.

It’s your first time seeing so much blood. You’ve had gunshot wound patients, of course, since seeing colour, but none like this. When you finally get a look at Frank’s face, you see that he is slick with it, as though someone has painted him over with a translucent sheen of red. His hair is sticky with it too, red and dark and hot and ugly, and the red is stained with black. 

It reminds you of a pomegranate, all that dark, dark red, and you hate it. There’s a knife wound on his cheek that gushes red persistently, pouring out colour into the air and seeping the pink from Frank’s cheeks. You’ve stitched it twice by the time the doctor’s find the fourth bullet stuck in his side, right above Frank’s hip. 

And you do your job. You do your fucking job, good Lord. You do your job well: you make your stitches with precision, you wield your scalpel like a professional swordsman, you cut and drag and draw and sew over and over again, slicing Frank open and closing him up again, changing his IV again, giving him a blood transfusion again, and you do it without strain. This is your job. This is what you were trained to do. When a patient’s needs are critical, everything disappears except the work. You’ve always wanted to help people. To save lives. Now you do. 

This is your job, and you’re fucking good at it. 

The world goes red, red, red.

Time blurs the longer you spend with Frank, but the team of operating doctors and nurses dwindles eventually. Erin brings you a cup of coffee and a piece of toast around three in the morning. You see her speaking with Dinah for a while, and it makes you smile. 

Finally you switch out a new bag of saline and sit down for the first time in hours, watching Frank’s vitals on the monitor’s screen. Someone asks you if you’ll be alright to stay with him, and you nod. 

Your head is hazy. Frank’s injuries have been turned into neat lines, and the blood has been cleaned off his face. He looks like the modern Prometheus, Mary Shelley’s Creature reborn, a collection of beautiful features marred by violence. He’s asleep, but the sedative given will surely wear off soon. He looks small. He looks tired. He looks gentle, you notice, and your chest surges with some protective rush of unparsable emotion. 

And he’s alive. Right now, that’s all that counts. 

The hospital room is a wasteland. You see nurses and custodians removing the biowaste, and flashes of red pass your eyes. You’re not squeamish, never have been, but this is something else entirely. 

Madani comes up on your shoulder, leaning down to murmur something in your ear. “What time do you get off?” 

You blink. Your mind moves sluggishly, and you exhale to clear your head. “Nine AM. I have to get my daughter-”

“No, you don’t,” Dinah cuts you off. “She’s in a CIA safehouse with friends of Frank’s and an active 24 hour security detail. Morgan is safe.” Something flickers in her eyes. “That’s the first thing Frank made sure of.” 

Exhaustion floods your tense body. You nearly sob - whether in relief or terror, you’re not sure - and whisper, “Thank you.”

Dinah’s mouth tightens and she nods toward the bed. “Don’t,” she says. “Thank him.” 

You hang your head low, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “Oh, God,” you mutter, voice cracking. “I…..  _ fuck.  _ This is happening way too fast.” 

“Yeah, well,” Dinah says, straightening, “you have a five hour break until we get Frank out of here. He’ll have the rest of your shift to recuperate, but-”

“What? No!” you cry, and although you’re a bit loud, you don’t care. “I just spent three hours stitching him up, Dinah, he can’t  _ move.  _ That’s inhumane and medically irresponsible; he’s half dead. I- I took an oath to do no harm and I intend to keep it.” 

Dinah levels you with an unreadable stare. When she speaks, she sounds begrudgingly impressed. “I get it,” she says finally. “You have a code. But I promise you that if we don’t move him, Frank  _ will  _ die. That’s not a threat, it’s a fact. Frank has made many, many enemies over the years. Powerful people. People whose names I cannot say right now. Most of them he can handle on his own, but when he can’t -” The implication hangs for a while. “When he can’t, he calls me.”

A chill touches your spine.  _ What makes Frank Castle contact the CIA?  _

“Okay,” you relent finally, sitting back and pinching the bridge of your nose. “You’re sure Morgan’s safe?” 

When Dinah smiles this time, it’s a real one, soft and respectful. “She’s currently under more security than the president,” she tells you. “Morgan will be fine.” 

You shut your eyes for just a minute, taking it all in. “Okay,” you say again. “Alright, let’s do it.” 

“Glad you’re on board,” says Dinah, clearing her throat. “I’m going to get some coffee.”

Waving her off, you watch the bed, the memory of that awful blood red staining the edges of your vision. It was a tidal wave of gore and violence and you’d never been so afraid in your life. You’ve lost people before in this very hospital, and every time it hurts, but these past hours have been exponentially worse than your hardest night. 

Then Frank chokes on air, and you’re up in a heartbeat. His head slams down upon the pillow like a caged animal, cheek twitching. Nightmare. Fuck. You - you should know what to do, goddamnit, you  _ know  _ what to do! This is your fucking job and you feel useless that you can’t wake him. 

“Frank,” you whisper harshly, leaning in and not caring who will hear, “Fuck -  _ wake up,  _ Frank.” Panic rises: your efforts are futile. You feel stupid, doing this, but more than that you just feel fucking terrified. If he tears a stitch - or worse, if he reopens an internal wound - every problem would rush red again, and you shudder.

Frank’s head thrashes again and you restrain him, supporting the base of his skull and shaking his shoulder hard. What else can you do? What the fuck can you do? You’re consumed by red and fear and memory and red, red, red, and you bark an order: “C’mon, Castle, wake  _ up! _ ”

And he does. 

Frank coughs, half-groaning, and winces, his eyes still distant as they dart around the room. The first word on his lips is your name, spoken as a rasp, forced out around a painful sounding cough. “M’dani,” he’s saying thickly, chest heaving, and a chill runs down your spine, “M’dani, listen, I’ve got t’ get to _ her _ b’fore-”

“Shh,” you interrupt, pressing a hand to his cheek. You’re trying both to quiet him down and comfort him and oh, God, you’d like nothing more than to comfort him. “Frank, it’s me. You’re in the hospital. It’s me, okay? I’m right here. I’m safe. Morgan’s safe too.” 

Wild eyes slow their hunted course as they settle on your face, tinged with bloodshot red. Frank looks up at you like it’s his first autumn, like you’re swathed in the reds and oranges of season’s change, like you’re a burning part of vibrant nature he has the privilege to look upon. He looks at you like you’re his red, beating heart, and he steals your breath while he’s at it.

“Hi,” you say finally, gentle and warm. You clear your throat and sit down next to him, wiping your hands on your scrubs like you haven’t just spent the last few hours getting to know his organs. “Kinda freaked me out for a second.”

You expect him to do something typical - to huff or grunt and make a sarcastic comment - but he just keeps looking at you. Your cheeks turn red and you glance towards the floor, trying to cover your fright with humor. “You know, this is the part where you -”

“Hey,” says Frank, all rough and tumble, and he reaches out for your hand. “Hey, I’m sorry, alright?”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

Frank sighs and looks away, running his tongue over his top lip and working his jaw. Nervous. You can recognize that. “I said ‘m sorry,” he repeats, stifling a cough. “Fuck, I mean - I dragged you into this, you know? And I’m sure Madani’s already got some plan worked out. Yeah. I mean, goddamn, she always does.” 

“There’s nothing to apologise for-” you start, but the guilt in Frank’s eyes makes you falter. 

“Yeah,” he rasps, low and awful. “Yeah, there is.” You squeeze down hard on his hand and he returns it, shaking his head. “Listen, if you wanna run, go. Go now. Go now and don’t look back once. I gotta give you that choice. I -” Frank is quiet for a moment, considering. “I will not have you caught up in this, you hear me? I-I-I owe you that. I owe the kid more than that, you know? I’m not getting her killed. Goddamnit, I am  _ not  _ getting her -”

“Frank,” you cut him off firmly, running your fingers over his knuckles. It pulls his gaze down to your hands, then back up to his face. “Morgan is safe. Dinah made sure of that. And so did you, I’m told.” He ducks his head and you bite your lip to keep from smiling. “If I weren’t 100% sure that you had her best interests at heart, I would be out of here.” 

You take a deep breath. “But I’m not. I’m here. And I’m in, because… because I trust you. Because you’re my consequence. And because whatever you were dreaming about-” You pause, measuring your words. When you speak again, your voice is both intense and steady. “Whatever you were dreaming about, I’m here to make sure that it never fucking happens.” 

Frank lies back on the shitty hospital pillows to meet your eyes, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. “Yeah? All on your own?”

“Damn straight.” 

He gages you, then nods. “Yeah, sounds about right.” 

For a while you just sit there, running your fingers over his knuckles, brushing your thumb across the inside of his wrist. It’s nice. Frank doesn’t move away, so you hold on and don’t let go. 

“Hey, nurse,” he says eventually, and you snort. 

“Yeah?”

“You told me once that you play Hozier in the ER.” His voice is low, and strained. You can tell he’s in a shitload of pain, and yet - 

“Yeah, I do,” you reply. “I take requests if I like the patient enough.”

“Mm.” He nods, frowning with approval. “Whaddaya say, doc? Do you like me enough to play music?” 

When you meet his eyes, you get to see those gorgeous smile lines, and you’re grinning too. “I’ll think about it,” you say. “I’m kind of busy right now, but, um, if you’ve got requests… I think I’ve got a few connections to this place.”

Frank chuckles, and  _ God  _ it must hurt, but right now you’re so relieved to hear that sound you could weep. “Guess so,” he says, the pink returning to his cheeks.

In about four hours, you’re going to take a deeply injured man out of the hospital and drag him God knows where to save him from enemies unknown. Your daughter’s security clearance now outranks politicians. This night has been the longest of your entire fucking life. 

But in this second, you get to see Frank Castle laugh, and it seems like an okay trade. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are, of course, deeply appreciated! Thank you for your response thus far; your words are absolutely inspiring. If you enjoyed, come check me out on Tumblr @inspiresimagine.


	4. Part IV - Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not a proper Punisher fic if there aren't life or death stakes, right? 
> 
> ft. the CIA, sketchy white vans, emotional breakdowns, and introducing Curtis Hoyle!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to this monster of a chapter! 7.2k words. someone stop me. 
> 
> song for this chapter is "Tribulation" by Matt Maeson.
> 
> trigger warning for mention of nazis.

At five AM that morning, Dinah re-enters Frank’s hospital room with a cup of coffee, an egg sandwich, and a clean shirt, looking a bit nauseated. You can’t help but smile a little - hospital food is famously nasty, and it seems that not even Homeland Security is immune. Erin has talked the other nurses into letting you stay with Frank, and you’re beyond thankful. For some reason you’re terrified that if you leave for too long, he’ll just blip out of existence. 

At five thirty AM, Dinah forces you to change out of your bloody scrubs. You put on a new pair and go back to his room, checking his vitals and his IV drip and his blood transfusion until there’s nothing to check anymore. You haven’t cried tonight, but your eyes are red anyway. The world is tinged with a green blur of fluorescent lighting, and your icy teal uniform pokes at your eyes.

At six AM, you start doing rounds with the patients again. You explain, as Dinah has instructed you, that “Pete Castiglione” is a family friend with a gambling addiction who had borrowed money from the wrong people. Your tongue is thick as you lie, but you do it. You have to.

At six thirty AM, Erin shoves toast and coffee into your hand and forces you to sit down. When you notice that it’s not complete shit, you’re startled into waking. Erin explains that she picked it up from the favourite cafe of your midnight appendicitis patient, because college students always know which places have ridiculous hours. 

At seven AM, you extract a promise from Dinah to let you call Morgan the minute you get to a safe house. It takes about five minutes of debate, but you get there, and you feel proud.

At seven thirty AM, Dinah sends a series of texts and then spends the remainder of the hour pacing down the hall on her phone. She speaks so low you can’t make out her words even when you pass her. Her brow is furrowed intensely and her thinking eyes scan the area. You’re a bit in awe of this tiny, beautiful agent, but try your best not to dwell on it.

At eight AM, Dinah pulls you into Frank’s room, shakes him awake, and explains the escape plan to both of you in meticulous detail. Her voice is measured and her lips are tight. She’s stressed - and with good reason. From what you can gather, the CIA as a collective organization has quite a bit of stake in Frank’s survival right now. 

At eight thirty AM, you nearly have a breakdown about the legality of Dinah’s plan, but she reassures you that you’re completely protected by the CIA and Homeland Security. “Any crimes you do commit during this period,” she promises, “will never be recorded.” You’re not really sure how that makes you feel about the justice system, but you try not to dwell on that either. 

At nine AM, Frank Castle dies. 

Or, more accurately, he “dies.” This was Dinah’s master plan: falsify the death of “Pete Castiglione,” sneak Frank out of the hospital, and meet up with her associate Curtis Hoyle, who’s waiting at the back entrance. Originally, Frank was going to borrow (read: steal) a pair of scrubs, and walk out in that, but you put your foot down.

“Listen,” you’d hissed at them both, “I get why we have to do this. I don’t  _ like  _ it, but I get it. I know how to mess with the heart rate monitor. I know how to navigate this place. But by God, Frank is  _ not  _ leaving this place on foot, do you hear me?”

“I can walk,” Frank had grunted, and you’d rounded on him with vehemence.

“No, you fucking will  _ not,”  _ you’d snapped, stabbing a finger towards his chest. “I spent three hours tonight making sure you didn’t bleed out. I think you’ve just used half of this place’s reserve of O positive. I promise that your hemoglobin levels aren’t normal because you’re still bleeding, asshole!” 

Frank had opened his mouth to respond but you’d ploughed forward, worry sharpening your words. “You should be intimately fucking familiar with the symptoms of blood loss,” you had snarled. “If you walk out of here, it’ll all hit you at once. Dizziness, confusion, faintness; I mean, shit, you should know the drill. Your heart’s going to go about a million beats per minute and you’ll fucking vomit on the spot so, no, Frank, you will  _ not  _ be walking because I cannot have you die tonight and absolutely fucking  _ not  _ because of medical neglect on my watch!” 

Breathing heavily, you had taken a step back from the hospital bed and folded your arms. The room was dead silent. Your words roughly translated to “I’m worried about you,” and by the look in Frank’s eyes, he understood. 

“Stretcher,” you’d said flatly. “We’re using a stretcher.”

Frank had met your gaze with a weary softness, and said, “Okay.” 

* * *

Five minutes before your shift ends, the plan goes into motion. You’re the only one in the hall with Frank’s room in it. Your coworkers are close enough, though, to hear what comes next: Dinah Madani lets out an ear piercing scream and the high buzz of a flatlining heart monitor cuts through the air. You know it’s fake, but it freaks you out anyway.

Already the Pronouncement of Death form is in your hand; Erin appears and follows you to the room. Every nerve in your body is on end as she jolts to a halt, looking at you with awful pity. Your breathing speeds up; your body stills.  _ It’s not real,  _ you remind yourself in a daze.  _ None of this is real. Come on. Come on, focus. _

“Do you want me to go in?” Erin asks softly, glancing at Dinah, who is performing spectacularly well for an intelligence agent. Her words reel you back into the present. “I can do it for you.” 

“It’s fine,” you say, swallowing hard. “Um, I think he’d want me to - to, um, do the certificate, I…” You take a deep breath and smile shakily at your favourite colleague, waving her away. Even so, you feel terrible for manipulating her.  _ This is necessary. I have to do this. I have to do this to save his life. _ “It’s fine. I’ve got it.” 

Erin takes a few steps back, nodding. “Okay,” she murmurs, touching your shoulder with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. “Well, call me if you need anything. I’m heading out.” 

“I will,” you say quietly, shutting your eyes. You’re surprised at how much this false death is affecting you; your emotions and your logical mind are completely at war. The flat noise of the heart monitor continues sawing away at your ears, and you lock your feelings tightly away. Then you lightly push Erin’s chest and smile wearily again. “I’ve got it.” 

Erin leaves. The witness is in place. Part one of the plan is complete. You walk into Frank’s room.

You pull a white sheet out of a cabinet as Madani - tear streaked and red-eyed - moves to shake Frank awake. Before she can blink you’ve covered her hand with yours, a warning look on your face.  _ “Let him sleep,”  _ you whisper, tone sharp. “God knows he’ll need it.” Both of you stay like that for a moment, staring Madani down with all the emphasis you can muster. Then her eyes flick left and she sighs.

“Fine.” 

You cover him in a white sheet like you’ve done a hundred times before and begin detaching him from those lifesaving machines. The rational part of your brain sing-songs that this is both illegal and stupid, but the rest of it takes control. You wheel Frank down the hall and snag your tote bag, passing it off to Dinah.

“Christ, this is heavy,” she grunts as she transforms before your eyes, grief melting away as she pulls her Homeland Security badge out of her pocket. 

You look over to her, cheeks heating up. You’d frantically packed bags of saline and blood - yes, blood - and a tube of painkillers into your green tote, because you were pretty sure someone was going to need it. Guiltily, you’d snagged a pint of O negative, because you never knew who would need the universal donor in a pinch. 

Dinah raises a brow, and you laugh nervously. “Yeah,” you agree without giving any more detail, turning down a back hallway and wheeling the stretcher down a ramp. You duck your head to avoid conversation as Dinah appraises you - damn, she makes you nervous - and nod towards a door. “That’s the morgue.” 

Handing off the stretcher and the Pronouncement of Death certificate, you let Dinah take charge. You aren’t allowed into the room in order to protect your identity, but you catch the gist: Dinah’s pulling rank. 

“....Homeland Security Special Agent in Charge of New York…,” you catch her say, tone firm and commanding. “....the body stays with me.” 

You shut your eyes and press your back to the wall, calming yourself down. This has been your craziest morning ever, and you’ve seen a  _ lot  _ at this hospital. You’ve removed a shampoo bottle from someone’s ass; one patient asked you to revive her dead parrot. You’re no stranger to weirdness, but this is some next-level shit. 

A screech of wheels lets you know that Dinah has finished, and when you open your eyes, she’s dusting off her blazer and looking completely unruffled. “Done?” you ask, banishing all thoughts of fear from your mind. Dinah nods, and you take your place at the helm of the stretcher again. 

“Pete Castiglione died of a brain hemorrhage at eight forty five this morning,” she replies, and you’re off. 

Sunlight floods your vision as Dinah pushes the back doors to the hospital open. Just outside is a waiting unmarked white van that makes you balk. “That’s not sketchy at  _ all,”  _ you chuckle, and Dinah levels you with a pointed stare. 

“Just get in the van.” 

You shut up. 

The rear doors to the vehicle open to reveal a muscular Black man with close cropped hair, looking annoyed. Well - ‘annoyed’ isn’t the right word, exactly. It’s a perfect mixture of aggravation and boredom and loyalty, and something tells you that this guy is way more than a CIA ‘associate.’ 

“This shit  _ again?”  _ the man asks, lowering himself gingerly from the van and favouring one leg. Prosthetic from the knee down, you notice with a bit of a shock. 

“C’mon, Curt,” Dinah sighs, and there’s something soft in the way she smiles at him. “It’s  _ always  _ this shit.” 

You clear your throat, fingers drumming on the handles of the stretcher. “Okay, so you two obviously know each other, but can we get out of here and then do introductions?” 

The man - Curt - looks to you with surprise, then laughs. “Yeah, I can see why he likes you,” he says, and gets to business. Together, the three of you hoist Frank’s stretcher into the van and climb up. Curt takes his place in the driver’s seat and Dinah rides shotgun; you sit on a bench in the belly of the beast. 

By now you’ve pulled the sheet off of Frank’s face and bunched it around his shoulders; miraculously, he’s still asleep. You want to take his head into your lap and run your palms over his buzzed hair but you don’t. That’s stupid, anyway, right? 

“Hey,” you call to Curt and Dinah up front, “Um, where are we going, anyway? And can I have a little more context about - uh, well, everything?” 

Curt laughs again, rich and low. It makes you feel safer. “I’m Curtis,” he says, lifting a hand in a makeshift wave that you spy in the rear view mirror. “Friend of Frank’s from a long time back. Let me tell you, it’s been a while since we’ve been in crisis mode. And it’s not good to be back.” 

“Cheerful,” you reply drily, but you’ve already warmed to Curtis the same way you took to Madani. You introduce yourself, clearing your throat. “I work at the hospital we just broke out of.” 

“Yeah, I’ve heard about you,” Curtis replies, nodding slightly. His eyes are still on the road, so you have no idea whether this is good or bad. “Dinah tells me you saved Frank’s life last night.” 

You laugh to release all the tension in your chest. “I had help. Lots.” 

“That’s usually my job,” Curtis says, “so good on you.” 

You lean forwards, impressed. “You’re a doctor?” 

“Army medic.” 

The two of you go back and forth for a while as you head up and out of the city, everyone breathing a collective sigh of relief as you cross the GWB. You’ve settled into a comfortable silence. Curt turns on the radio. 

Around ten thirty, Frank wakes up. It’s not peaceful: he’s snarling like a man possessed, breath snagging in his throat and dragging up noise like raked dirt. You’ve almost nodded off, but the sounds of scuffling set you alight with fear. 

Just like before, he is frantic. This time Frank is confused, gradually coming to, searching the interior of the van for something - anything - familiar. His lips work around a word, fragmented into disoriented bursts of noise. You lean over the stretcher, working on instinct, pressing one hand to his non-injured cheek. “Frank? Hey, Frank, hey - it’s me, alright? I’m still here. I’m right here, um, Curtis is here too-”

Frank heaves a shuddering breath and calms, slowly, his eyes still darting from side to side. He’s not confused anymore, no - “Shit,” he’s muttering, refusing to make eye contact. “Goddamn, I -” His mouth shapes the word he tried to say upon waking, and you go cold. 

It’s ‘ _ Morgan.’  _

Eventually the stuttering ‘m’ sound tapers away and Frank’s eyes stop darting back and forth like ambulance lights, and he sees you. He’s been looking intermittently in your direction for a while but now he sees you, and he is fractured. Voice hoarse, he says your name, and you grab his hand. 

“Hey,” you say, squeezing hard. “Welcome back.” 

Your tone is light, but it doesn’t convince Frank of anything. You both know it, and silence crawls up the sides of the van. The air is thick with tension as Frank deliberates, words stacking up unsaid in his throat. “I - I need you to go,” he says finally, voice hoarse as he breaks eye contact again. “Yeah? Listen, you’ve got to leave. This is the last time you can make that choice, you know, and I—” He swallows, softening for just a moment. “Can you do that?” 

His grip on your hand is so tight it hurts, and there’s fear in the set of his jaw. It stabs through his whole being, that fear, and instinctive, bare instincts of survival are Frank’s lifeblood right now. Steadily, you shake your head, brushing your thumb over his. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Frank,” you murmur. “I made that choice last night. I made it when I met you in the park four months ago. I- I put Morgan in danger, and I mean, yeah, I know that Dinah has her under a ridiculous amount of security upstate, but I’m never going to stop worrying until this whole thing passes.”

Frank’s jaw clenches and he rests one cheek on the pillow, closing his eyes. You press on: “I’m going to see this damn thing through, Frank. I made a choice, and I’m going to face the consequences. Are there times when I think that it’s a fucking awful one? That I’m a shit mother and a shit person to boot? I mean, of course, but -” Your laugh is bitter and catches Frank’s attention. 

“Hey,” he cuts you off, gravelly and intense, “don’t -”

“Let me finish,” you say, inhaling. “Let me finish.” He nods and you push hair out of your face, focusing on some dent in the wall of the van. “I’m just doing my best for the people in my life I care about. One, that’s my kid. That’s my baby, Frank, she’s - she’s been my everything for so fucking long, and I will never stop wanting the best for her, never. She’s with some people called the Liebermans now, um, Madani said you’d know what that meant?” 

When Frank lets out a short bark of laughter, you feel immeasurably better. “Morgan - she’s all I’ve prioritized for a long time,” you whisper. You clasp his hand tight in both of your own and you don’t let go. “My friends are amazing, but I’m busy with work all the time; my dating life is - was - nonexistent, and I’m happy, yes, but the only person in my life whose actions were of consequence to me - that was my kid. For years.”

You exhale. You’re not often outwardly emotional, but you have to say this. You look down at your green scrubs and steel your resolve. “And then I met you. You’re my fucking consequence, Frank, and I made a choice -  _ the  _ choice that I think will keep you both as safe as possible. And I’m going to face the consequences. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Frank’s eyes are too bright in the silence that follows. You bow your head and continue running your thumb over his knuckles, waiting. “Yeah,” he rasps finally, once he’s gotten his bearings. One corner of his mouth lifts just barely, but you catch it. “I kind of thought you’d say that.”

* * *

The safehouse is an hour outside of New York City and completely obscured by trees. Looking out the van’s front window, you’re struck with how green everything is: the trees, the grass, the tall ferns in the front lawn. Every leaf is fully mature; each needle on the evergreens is vibrant and dark. Shades of green ripple through the forest like an impressionist palette, and a light breeze pushes the boughs into motion.

It’s all green, green, green. From the ground to the canopy, a green tapestry woven by nature surrounds you. You’ve never been in a forest since seeing colour - sure, you went to Central Park like, once, but even then the grays of skyscrapers scratched at the edges of your vision. This is like stepping into a plush blanket, deep and green and lush green, green, green, and there’s so much colour you feel faint. 

A small house is nestled in the midst of this fairytale: dull beige, one story. Everything around it is green, ivy creeping up the walls and strangling out the flat brown. When you look closer you spot green LED lights peeping out of trees, a subtle security measure recording footage of the clearing and beyond. Green swallows you whole. 

Dinah opens the back door of the van and nods. The breeze greets you like an old friend, and you smile. “We’re going to meet in the kitchen,” Dinah says without preamble. “There’s a lot to discuss.” 

Frank pushes himself up to his elbows and starts to swing his legs over the side of the stretcher, but you shut that down. “What do you think you’re doing?” 

“I’m fine,” Frank says without answering properly, and you jab a finger straight into his chest, leaning in.

“No. You’re not,” you growl, voice vibrating deep in your chest. You stand directly over him, so close your noses almost touch.  _ “I’m  _ the medical professional here, and you’re far from okay, Mr Castle.” 

There’s something in his eyes you can’t place. “I-”

“No ‘but’s,” you say sternly, resisting the urge to trace his jawline with a wandering pointer finger. “Stay. Down.” 

Frank stays right where he is. “Yes ma’am,” he says finally, and something in his voice makes you think… he liked that. 

Interesting. For later. Anyway. 

“Madani, keep driving,” Frank says suddenly, and you do a double take. “Drop her and Curt off here, and keep driving.”

You almost choke. “What?” 

His expression is resigned already as your gaze passes between him and Dinah, the latter of whom seems caught off guard for the first time since this ordeal has started. “Yeah.” Frank’s voice is flat. “I know the way your goddamn organization works, Madani, and your plan to use me as bait? Not gonna happen here. Not with her.” 

“What the hell is going on?” you ask, raising your voice. “Dinah, come on, I -”

“Get him inside, please,” Dinah tells you sharply, but you’re a bit too nervous and confused to do anything.

Frank snorts. “So you wanna do this here, huh?” he challenges, voice rigid with intention. 

Dinah’s lips tighten and she folds her arms. “We’re not doing ‘this’ at all,” she replies in a tone that doesn’t broker argument. 

A short growl bursts from Frank’s lips and he heaves himself upwards before you have a chance to protest. “You’re gonna use me as bait. Yeah, Madani?” Frank looks dangerous sitting barely upright on his stretcher, one arm propping him up. Dinah doesn’t disagree. “I know why you brought me to the hospital. Why you saved my goddamn life, yeah, I know. Pilgrim and his ex-group of Nazis, yeah, I know all about that shit. Eh, Madani?” He pauses, swallowing. “You look real nervous now.” 

Frank nods to himself, working his jaw. “All the ones that died a few years ago. Pilgrim was the one that killed ‘em but it got blamed on me. And yeah, I figured out they’re back too, just like the CIA did. It’s the core of ‘em, and they’re nasty.” His eyes are on fire, blazing near-black, and you’re afraid. Not of Frank, but of this outside threat of mindless, intentional bigotry. 

“Yeah,” he calls as Dinah turns to go, a rough shout, “yeah, you wanna use me as bait, that’s fine. But you don’t fucking touch her, you hear me?” Dinah is striding towards the safehouse entrance but Frank just grows louder, more furious. “Madani! Madani, you fucking listen to me, I said you don’t  _ touch  _ my girls! Listen to me. You don’t touch my girls or I’m out.” 

Dinah stops. You think your heart stops too, just for a second, as you register his words.  _ My girls.  _ That’s you and Morgan, you realize with a jolt, and you’re unspeakably sure that he reciprocates every feeling you edged towards articulating on the drive over. 

Dinah looks to you for a moment. “Frank and I are going to speak alone,” she says, and you nod. “We’ll meet you in the house.” 

“Keep him in one piece,” you joke tightly, and Dinah flashes you a short but genuine smile. You jump down from the van and pass Dinah on your walk into the safehouse, shutting the door behind you.

Obviously you’re not going to leave this conversation entirely. Out the living room window - one of the only ones in the house - you can see Frank and Dinah deep in discussion. It has about three deadbolts and you’re pretty sure it’s bulletproof. After a bit of manoeuvring, you pry open the glass and welcome sound. They’re angry, so their voices carry. Thank  _ God.  _ Like a child, you peer out the window to watch, and to listen. 

“-and she’s my soulmate, you hear that?” Frank’s voice is loud, and his breath is ragged, jaw clenched in an expression of control. “I never thought I’d have another chance, Madani, I never thought I would -” He shakes his head once to switch trains of thought. “She’s too damn good for me. Too good for any of this shit the CIA does, I mean, nah, she thinks you’re good, Madani. She thinks we’re all good here.” 

Frank huffs. You hear his boot boot scrape the ground in sarcastic punctuation. You have to strain to make out his voice, low and fierce. “So that’s my condition. Not one fuckin’ hair on her head or the kid’s head is touched, or I’m out. Done.” His nose scrunches and he flicks his tongue out over one lip. “You owe me.” 

Dinah is harder to hear, but her body language is tense. She leans in and says something you can barely make out: “-you have my word,” she finishes, and Frank nods. Your heart is in your throat. 

They start towards the house and you slam down the window, hastily redoing the bolts and finding Curtis in the kitchen. You slide down into a seat at the dining table that rests in the middle of the room as a tea kettle whistles. 

“You want anything?” Curtis asks as he searches the cabinets, and you nearly sob with relief. 

“Yes, please.” 

The two of you pick out and pour tea, which has just finished steeping when Dinah and Frank arrive. Frank is walking for reasons unknown and certainly unnecessary, collapsing into a chair with a stifled groan. You make him a cup of chamomile and slide it in front of him as you sit, catching the way that Dinah’s hand rests momentarily on Curtis’s wrist.

Interesting. Frank hasn’t noticed, instead sniffing at the tea and looking over to you. “What the hell is this?” 

“It’s chamomile,” you say neutrally, biting your lip to keep from grinning at the look in his face. “Um, it’s tea. I put honey in it.” You hold eye contact for a moment as you push the mint green mug towards him. “It’s good for you. Drink.” 

Frank breaks into a smile that feels like the sun is coming out from the clouds. “Yes ma’am,” he agrees, cupping it in his hands. 

Dinah clears her throat and you look up to her, raising your hand like a kid in school. She fights a smile, and you feel pretty pleased with yourself. “Yes?” 

“So… Nazis?” you ask with too much false cheer, and Frank tenses beside you. Dinah sighs. 

“Listen, I know what you heard sounded bad,” she says. “But yes. There was a Neo-Nazi with a grudge against Frank who disappeared -” She grimaces. “Died, excuse me, a few years ago. The group died with him, or so we thought. There are a few vengeful bastards out for blood, and the CIA is working to infiltrate them in order to take them out from the inside. We need Frank to draw them out, help us track them down. Technically we can’t aim to kill them, but what happens happens.” 

Madani squares her shoulders. You’re watching with wide eyes, feeling your breath speed up. “After tomorrow we’ll have names, faces, tracking technology. We’ll arrange for a Homeland Security shootout to take you down, Frank, and then the pictures will be uploaded to our databases. From there you’ll be free: new credentials, history, name. Monitored for a bit, but free. And after that you’ll never have to see us again.” 

“Great,” says Frank, slurping at his tea. 

You’re in full crisis mode, though, pushing your chair away from the table and stumbling back. “So they’re real Nazis, then, and you’re just talking about it like lunch plans? Faking another death like it’s your default plan?” 

“It’s the best course of action,” Dinah says, but you plough on.

“It’s just,” you say frantically, backing up and spinning in a circle like some kind of hunted animal. “No one said anything about  _ Nazis  _ when we got into this. We’re fighting Nazis?”

“You’re not going to be fighting anyone,” Dinah says sternly, and you toss your hands into the air. 

“Oh, great! Thank you. _Thank you,”_ you cry, the words just bubbling out of you. You drag your hands through your hair and pinch your brow as if to stave off a headache. “This does not help me feel any better.”

“Yep,” says Curtis, heaving himself upwards. “This is my area. Out, you guys.” 

He and Madani have a wordless conversation and Curtis walls over to you, putting a hand on the small of your back and leading you into the living room. Frank doesn’t move, but you can feel his eyes on your back. 

You sit heavily on the sofa and bury your face in your hands, sighing. “I’m sorry,” you say miserably, shame rising in your cheeks. “I didn’t mean -”

“No apologies,” Curtis says, patting your knee and leaning forward. “You’re doin’ pretty well, all things considered.” 

You huff, exhaling steadily. “Right.”

“You are, doc,” Curtis says, nudging your side. “I can’t pretend like this is the end. Hell, it’s for sure gonna get worse before it gets better. And Dinah, she’s - she means well. But this is your first rodeo, and it sucks.” 

“I’m just - worried,” you admit, trying not to cry. “I don’t know, about Frank, about Morgan - I’m afraid for them, Curtis, and I feel so fucking helpless, and I…” You trail off. “I’m just scared, I guess.” 

Curtis is quiet for a moment. “You just have to ride it out,” he tells you eventually, his dark eyes sympathetic. “And I know you will. We all will, and we’re all gonna help you.” You shut your eyes, but at his next words, you know Curtis is grinning. “And Frank will be fine. Hell, he’ll be more than fine, considering someone actually made him lie down for a few hours.” 

Your laugh is short and tense. “Does he actually try to walk around when he’s  _ this  _ injured?”

Curtis shakes his head. “You have no idea.” 

The two of you go back and forth like that for a while longer, and you feel better until the second Curtis leaves. He’s going to set up the line between your safe house and Morgan’s, so you can call her, and you’re eternally grateful. But the moment you’re alone, you’re overwhelmed with thoughts of Nazis and Frank and your little Jewish daughter and oh, God, you shut down, slowly, wondering what happened to your ordinary life. 

You’re also still unsure that you’d do anything differently if you had the chance to live these past few months again, which is equally worrying. But for now you’ve made a choice, and you’re going to have to live with the consequences. 

Outside the window is green, green, green, and the swirl of leaves and tree branches rustle in the breeze. Looking at it calms you down just a bit and you stare, vision going blurry, your whole body full of green as though the very vines are growing inside you. 

Anywhere from five minutes to an hour later, Frank enters the room and sits wincingly on the couch across from you. Your bleary gaze flicks to him. You can’t muster the effort to do anything yet, even though your phone call to Morgan is prepared in the other room. 

What the hell are you supposed to say? What can you even tell her?  _ Sorry, baby, there’s an embodiment of evil coming after us, and Frank might not live to see tomorrow?  _ Your turmoil must show on your face, in the furrow of your brow and the curve of your thinking mouth.

“Uh, one of my teeth is fake,” Frank says suddenly, and you snort with surprise. It’s crass and stupid but it takes the edge off and you look to him, trying to fight the smile off your lips. The look on his face tells you that he’d known long before he spoke that it would make you laugh.

“What?” 

“C’mere,” Frank says, patting the spot next to him. As you sit down on the sofa beside him you wonder why you haven’t been doing it all along. 

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from grinning like a teenager. You’re spread thin and exhausted but goddamn if Frank Castle can make you smile, you’ll take it. “If this is your way of de-stressing-”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Frank warns, tilting his head back to look you in the eye. “Don’t think about that, alright? Tomorrow’s tomorrow.” You deliberate and he bumps your shoulder. “Hey. You hear me? Tomorrow’s tomorrow. You don’t think about anything but now, you got that?” 

For the first time in what feels like hours, you take a deep breath. “Which tooth?” you ask, and Frank chuckles. Smile lines. That’s your man. 

“One in the way back,” he says, poking his cheek. “Damn, and the CIA paid for the dental work and everything. Goddamn. Weirdest day of my life, you know?” He leans forward, clasping his hands together and letting his elbows rest on his knees. It’s familiar. Steady. He shakes his head, all whip-tight movements. That’s your man. “They took me to some covert ops place and there was just the one room, and there was a fuckin’ dentist in it, right? Had to sign an NDA and everything. I mean, a goddamn NDA. For one fuckin tooth.”

When you finally laugh, the entirety of Frank’s intense gaze rests upon you. That was his goal, you realize finally, because your emotional literacy skills remain close to zero. He was just trying to get you to laugh. “See,” you say, “this is what you risk.”

Frank snorts. “My teeth?”

“An awkward ride with some CIA officials,” you correct him. “And that poor dentist! You were that guy’s best patient story, and he’s not even allowed to talk about it.” You shift your body until you’re parallel with his and pat Frank’s chest, smiling. “That was quite a bit of suffering you caused, Mr. Castle.”

“Oh yeah?” Frank asks. His voice is low and gravelly and you’re so damn close to him, and he’s smiling. Soft lips, a little bit of stubble. That’s your man.

“Yeah,” you reply, and your nose brushes his. Either there’s less air in his gravity or you’re schoolgirl-giddy, because you grow lightheaded and clumsy. “What’ll we do about that?”

Frank’s coarse palm comes up to the side of your cheek and you respond instinctively, straddling his waist and taking his face in both of your hands and then you’re kissing him. And then you’re kissing him and goddamn his lips are soft and oh, every bit of him is soft in ways that you’d think it wouldn’t be, right? Because he’s covered in cuts and scrapes and you can feel the bruises beneath your fingers, you can feel the violence in his hands, but it makes you feel safe, somehow, it makes everything feel soft and right and perfect and you’re kissing Frank Castle. 

You pull away, eventually, but you don’t, just resting your forehead against his, and you’re breathing like you’ve just marathon-fucked him. Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe it’s adrenaline. Maybe it’s the way that colour just overwhelmed you when you kissed, like every object gained an aura, and maybe it’s because he’s your soulmate and you’re finally kissing your soulmate and you nip once at his bottom lip and Frank looks heartbroken.

Wrong response. 

You pull back all the way. 

“Frank?”

He still has one hand on the back of your neck, pointer finger running up and down like he’s trying to memorize the pattern of your hair. When he leans in, you let him, and he mumbles, “We shouldn’t do this.”

You know he’s right. “Why not?” you ask anyway.

“Cause tomorrow’s tomorrow,” he rasps, and you don’t want to think about the implications. “And there’s a big storm comin’.”

You swallow. He’s right. You really don’t want to think about it. 

“I should call Morgan,” you say, forcing the waver out of your voice. Frank nods. You’re both quiet for a while. 

Then you stand and brush off your clothes, heading for the kitchen on unsteady legs. The memory of that fucking kiss burns in the forefront of your mind but you try try try to push it away. An untraceable landline rests on the kitchen table. All you have to do is pick it up. 

Your hand hovers over the phone for a split second. Then you steel your resolve and lift the receiver. It rings three times, each more agonising than the last. 

“Mommy?” 

You nearly burst into tears at the sound of Morgan’s voice. After everything that has happened today, hearing her - your baby, your little girl - is like a piece of home. “Hi, Morgan,” you whisper, shuttling your eyes. You can feel two wet tracks down your cheeks and your breath hitches with relief and fear and regret and God knows what else. “Hi, baby.” 

“Mommy, I made a new friend!” Morgan chirps, and with a flood of gratitude you realise she isn’t afraid. Dinah has allowed your daughter her ignorance, and her innocence. 

“Oh yeah?” you ask, trying not to sniffle as you take a deep breath. Hearing her voice makes you feel like maybe - just maybe - it’s gonna be okay. 

“Her name’s Leo,” Morgan says proudly, and you can hear her smile. “She’s nineteen and she knows Frank too! When she was little he helped out her daddy with some problems! She said they were government problems so I think she means taxes.” 

You laugh, and it’s watery but real. You’re filled with so much love it’s hard to breathe. “What do you know about taxes, Mog?” you tease, and she launches into tangents about the Liebermans and her newfound adoration of Leo and oh, God, you miss her, you miss her, you miss her. 

“Can I talk to Frank before I have to go?” Morgan asks as Sarah Lieberman tells her she only has five more minutes on the phone. You glance towards the living room, where he cuts a lonesome figure on the sofa. 

“Sure,” you murmur, voice thick with sudden emotion. You clear your throat. “Hey, Frank? There’s somebody on the line for you.” Morgan giggles. Frank meets your eyes, and you hold out the receiver. When he stands, you release a sigh of relief. 

Frank shoots you a look that could mean a million things and takes the phone; you step back to give him a little space. Fiddling with the cuff of your sleeve, you watch his face as Morgan’s tinny voice springs across the line. 

“Hey, kiddo,” Frank says, laughing low in his chest. A pause. “Yeah. Yeah, you met Leo, huh? Tell her I say hi.” There’s a moment of silence. You assume Morgan is rambling as you hear scattered “Yeah”s from Frank’s end. It makes you smile. She’s comfortable with him; she adores him, and God, she needs someone like that in her life. Frank is still responding to everything she says, serious as a heart attack. “Sounds like you’re having fun.”

After a few more minutes of near-silence interspersed with chuckles and noises of agreement, Frank’s grip on the phone tightens. He turns his back to you and his voice goes low, rough. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he says quietly, rasping out a comfort. “Of course I will.”

More silence. You try to steal a look at Frank’s face but he is fully angled away. Your body goes tense. Then -

“Promise,” says Frank finally, and you swear - by God, you  _ swear  _ you hear his voice crack on the last syllable. He clears his throat. “Yeah. G’night, kiddo.”

A dull dial tone radiates from the receiver, but Frank doesn’t put the phone down. You take a step forward, then hesitate. Is this right? Are you allowed to do this? He doesn’t move so you step behind him, closing your hand over his and lowering the landline to the base. “Frank?” you whisper, one hand on his shoulder.

He inhales sharply and his breath catches on a sob and your heart twists in your chest, your lungs suddenly empty, vacuum-packed empathy, and on instinct you wrap your arms around his middle, resting your cheek against his back. “Hey, I…” 

Frank pulls away - whether from embarrassment or reflex you can’t tell - but you reach out, snagging his wrist and turning him to face you. “When I said I’m not going anywhere, I meant it,” you say firmly. “Both of us.”

On his face is an epic tragedy that began eight years ago in a park, with a family no longer alive. A daughter who will not hope again. A son who will not laugh again. A wife who will not love again. Frank’s eyes are glassy with memory but they’re focused on you - he’s seeing  _ you,  _ you, you, adorned in green scrubs and tired eyes. In this moment you’re certain that he’ll never forget them, and you don’t want him to. 

“I’m never gonna be able to protect her,” Frank says suddenly, his fingers finding yours. His voice his raw and there are tears streaming down his cheeks, free and mourning and preemptive. “You, uh - y’know that, don’t you? Neither of you, I-I- I’m not - I can’t do that again, not -” 

Breath. You want to comfort him but your vocal chords are shrink wrapped with his sorrow. 

“I had their laughter, you know?” he says with so much hope, and the past tense is a gut punch. “I had that. And -” Another breath. “And I had - I had memories, I - I can still see ‘em, sometimes, if I - when -” Frank’s next idea catches in his throat with a stutter. 

“It’s always the same." His trigger finger is twitching and he rocks on his heels, repeating those words like a lifeline. _His family._ He’s talking about his family. "It’s always the goddamn same, I - they - they were the only people I ever had, the only ones I had in my life to lose, you know? They were the only people I loved enough to lose, I mean, the only people I lost and still - and still loved when I was losin’ em, I - and I still, I - sometimes I wake up and I think I see Maria, you know? Right next to me, I think I see her. And it’s always the same, it’s always the goddamn same and I can’t -”

Breath. You swallow to keep from crying. Frank’s voice is sandpaper rough, barely a whisper.

“And I can’t do it again,” he says. “I can’t do it again, not with you and not with the kid. You know? Not with her. Can’t lose another kid, I-I-I  _ can’t.  _ I can’t.” Here he shatters like a glass vase, voice cracking and breath wet, sobbing, face crumpled, and you can barely hold yourself together. “Can’t lose another daughter.” 

You take two steps across the kitchen and, wordless, throw your arms around his neck to pull him tight, not caring that you’re on tiptoe. Frank’s face is buried in the hollow of your neck and you can feel the tears fall there, hot and tired and so filled with love. You run a hand over the buzzed hair at the base of his skull, and you’re not sure who you’re comforting. 

And you breathe. God, you just stand there and breathe, and you try not to cry but you can’t and you both just stand in the kitchen and  _ understand  _ each other and - and maybe things will be okay if you never move.  _ I can’t lose another daughter,  _ he had said, an admission spoken like a prophecy, and those words knife your heart. 

_ “You won’t,”  _ is what you want to say, but your voice has been clogged by emotion and is now out of commission, so you just hold Frank for a long time, hoping the message comes across. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, hit me up on Tumblr @inspiresimagine for further discussion about Frank, this fic, or general conversation! and (of course) kudos and comments are dearly appreciated ;)

**Author's Note:**

> I always appreciate comments and kudos! If you enjoyed, hit me up for conversation or general exploits on my Tumblr, @inspiresimagine.


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